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exhausted on the tragic morning of May  28,

I shall never forget the pathetic figure which
met my eyes. With a sleeping grandchild
strapped over her back, she was standing a little
way back from the hole, soaking her tears in the
corner of a crirnson-and-yellow blanket. She
never once looked toward the hole, nor did she
approach it nearer than ten feet. She just stood
there with her face turned slightly to the side and
toward the ground, with one hand quietly mop-
ping her eyes and the other picking aimlessly at
the little twigs of red willow which crept up to
her waist-line. Her head was bent as if she were
ashamed of the emotions which she could not
control. Wonderful woman—I am proud to
bear the name of this lovable character who long
ago, adopted me as her son. And my highest
hope in the new life that I have adopted from the
white man is that I shall never do anything to
bring shame upon that name—Spotted Calf.